The Area of Her Curves
by rowdymouse
Summary: While straightening up Porky's playroom in Thunder Tower, Li'l Miss Marshmallow meets a peculiar, time-traveling visitor. Something about him tweaks all her submission subroutines...


"Don't move," said a voice behind Li'l Miss Marshmallow.

She stopped perfectly still where she was vacuuming the rug of the Pig King's playroom, and her little electronic brain hummed through several hundred thousand calculations. She processed the captured audio, analyzed it, and compared it against several hundred samples she had also recorded, saved, and analyzed. Even with her sophisticated processing power, it took her a good half-second.

When she found a near-match, she fed the data into an additional decision-making subroutine. A moment later every joint in her body stiffened as all her pneumatics fired simultaneously, and the handle of the still-running vacuum cleaner fell to the floor. "Complied," she said in a sweet soprano-you wouldn't know it was synthesized unless you were told. "Awaiting further instructions."

"You're...wait, are you a robot?" The voice caught its breath. "Turn around and face me. Don't move any further than that."

"Model MROB-6720M," she said. She turned to face the voice, then stood there, pose rigid. "Name: Li'l Miss Marshmallow. I perform cleaning, cooking, and courtesy tasks, as well as sentry duties and miscellaneous services on this floor of Thunder Tower."

"Miscellaneous..." He was a teenaged boy, pale and freckled, with an unruly mess of blond hair and a long lean body that was all bony angles. He was staring at her through thick glasses, down the scope of an energy rifle. He faltered visibly, and the weapon he had on her quavered-he was flushing a brilliant red that showed as a warm infrared glow on her optical scan-and then he shook his head. "Never mind," he said. "I don't want to know. Are you going to hurt me?"

"I wasn't planning on it," she said sincerely.

"Okay," he said, "well." He lowered the gun a very little. "You can move, I guess."

She stooped, watching him, then reached down to shut off the vacuum cleaner. He was staring at her still, blinking, like he was trying to puzzle something out. She straightened up, and smiled at him. "You are pointing a weapon at me," she said, not unkindly.

"...yeah, er, well." He removed his finger from the trigger finally, and lowered it to his side. "Well, it was a routine security test, you know. You were supposed to enter sentry mode. King P..." He waved his free hand, and sniffed. "Yeah, he'll be real disappointed."

"Your voice print triggered an override," she said. "I recommend someone else be sent to trigger sentry functions."

He bit his lip. "You know, you look just like somebody I knew," he said, and took a few steps forward.

She stood a petite five feet tall, with smooth, soft blonde hair collected into pigtails. Under her maid's uniform was the subtlest suggestion of curves: narrow hips, small breasts. "Is that a compliment?" she said, and she giggled, raising her shoulders.

"Oh," he said seriously, and nodded. "Oh, absolutely."

He took a slow look around-there was no doubt that this was a playroom, dotted with presents and toys. The wallpaper and carpet were garish purple and green, and a hot tub shaped like a heart was set into the floor. He did a double-take to stare at the hot tub for a minute. "Er," he said. He rested the butt of the rifle on the ground, and leaned on it. "This is a nice place you've got."

"What may I do to make your stay in Master P's room more pleasant?" She was walking toward him at an easy pace.

He swallowed, visibly. "I, er." He shrugged, then tried a smile. "You can keep me company, I guess. You must get lonely too. How many, er..." He cast a glance over his shoulder, toward the door. "How many visitors do you get?"

Li'l Miss Marshmallow smiled. "This room is never locked," she said. "But I don't get many visitors. I think they fear the Pig King's wrath. He does get so angry some days."

He stood there awkwardly, still leaning on his weapon. She looked down at it. "Is that a prototype?" she said.

"Er," he said, and lifted it up to show it off. "Yeah. It's pretty, er, deadly." She stepped over to study it, hands interlaced behind her back. He sucked in a breath and grinned at her, cocksure. "I made it myself," he said.

"You design weapons for the Pigmasks?" she said.

"That's right," he said. He was still grinning tightly, and his blush was heading for his ears.

"May I..." One of her hands-perfectly sculpted, indistinguishable from living flesh-was heading for the weapon, but she paused and looked up at him.

"Mm?" he said.

"May I..._touch_ it?"

"Be careful," he said. "It's a sensitive instrument." He held it out to her, and her hand rested gently on its chrome. She stroked it, for a moment, delicately, then brought her hand back to her side. "So, erm..." He lowered his weapon again. "He's not just going to walk through the door any minute now, is he?"

"Is who?" she said.

"You know," he said. "The Pig King. Am I going to get busted for standing in here and rabbiting on with the hired help?" He tried a smile, little and tense.

She lowered her gaze and started to very meticulously and nervously tug at her fingers. "When I say I don't get visitors," she said, "I mean he doesn't really come by, either."

"But you're..." He smiled still at her, and gestured to her with an open hand. "You're designed for hospitality. It seems like a waste..."

"I don't think I've seen him in a year," she said. Her chin dipped. She turned, hands laced neatly behind her back, and started to walk absently along the perimeter of the room. "He's grown very old. I think it's become a chore to come visit. And with New Pork City nearing completion, I just don't think he thinks I'm that interesting anymore..."

"That's a shame," he said. He was watching her pace, lips slightly parted as if with a sort of childlike wonder.

"It's alright," Li'l Miss Marshmallow said. She paused, looked back over his shoulder, and smiled at him.

"You're very..." He started to cross to her, slowly, tracing the same path she had along the edge of the round room. He very studiously didn't look at her, but instead at the myriad toys and gifts that lined the walls. He picked up a slotcar-wooden, maybe three inches long-and held it up to the light to peer at it. "You're very lifelike," he said.

"Thank you," she said, warmly.

He shook his head as he set it down and continued languidly investigating the room. She noted a quick, nervous, involuntary physiological response-constricted pupils, the color draining from his face, a rigidity to his stance-as he very deliberately avoided looking at a squared-off windup metal robot, and quickly moved on to a small red ball. He nudged it with his foot. "Most of the robots I've met, I couldn't have a conversation with them like this," he said. "You're articulate, you're...you're physiologically responsive..."

"You're very kind," she said.

"You pass the Turing Test," he said.

She beamed at him as he abandoned the red ball and kept on walking. "I mean, you're remarkable," he said. "I genuinely wouldn't have known you were anything short of a human woman if I hadn't triggered your override."

"To be fair," she said, "you did come in to test me."

"Oh right," he said. "That too." He stopped near her, turned his head to look over absently-and did a double-take. He was standing next to a rectangular glass display case, and mounted on a small velvet pillow, surrounded by meticulously-aimed electric lights, rested a red plastic yo-yo. He sucked in his breath, as though overcome, and then let out a quick bark of a laugh.

"That's the Best Friend's Yo-Yo," she said. "One of my jobs is to guard it."

"Best Friend? Really?" He bent over to examine it better, and pushed his thick glasses up his nose. "This place..."

"No one," she said, watching him, "touches the Best Friend's Yo-Yo."

He laughed again, easier now. "You're kidding me. You're absolutely kidding. He's been looking for-this-this is crazy. It's just-" He reached out and touched the glass. "That's so impossible..."

What happened next took place with lightning speed-her arm whipped out and her hand clamped closed around his throat. She lifted him easily, high above her head, so his feet dangled a few inches off the floor. He gasped, kicked, and both his hands went to claw at her single one. She stared up at him placidly.

"No one," she said again, "touches the Best Friend's Yo-Yo."

He inhaled, ragged and choking, and nodded. "Nobody," he said, a bare wheeze.

She suspended him there for a few eternal seconds, before she slowly lowered him and set him back on his feet. She released his throat and he wobbled visibly, rubbing his neck for a moment. He raised his gaze to look at her, and he eked out a smile. "Hydraulics?"

"Pneumatic," she said agreeably, all affront gone.

"I wouldn't really say pneu-" He bit the tip of his tongue, hard, and turned his face away from her.

"You've read the manual," she said, "haven't you?"

"The..."

"For the MROB series-"

"You're really going to have to jog my memory," he said seriously. He ceased rubbing at his neck, and stood there casually now, engaging her just as he had before.

"We're renowned for our versatility," she chirped. "Delicate enough to hold a cup of tea, but strong enough to exert 1500 kilopascals of pressure, if the situation warrants."

"You sound like an advert." He cast a glance back over his shoulder at Ness' yo-yo in the case, before he looked back to her. Her hands were loosely interlaced again, and she was smiling warmly up at him. "Fifteen hundred, really?"

"Yes," she said.

"I'd really have to get a look at the mechanism." He took her arm gently and tugged on it-her fingers released each other-and lifted it up to hold it at a right angle of her body. He ran his arm down its length, palpitating with his fingers. "But I'd be surprised if some redesigning wouldn't result in six thousand kilopascals, at least..."

"Sentry isn't my first function," she said, and thrust out her bottom lip a little.

"Oh, I know," he said. He brought her arm back down to rest at her side, and looked down at her seriously. "But you're designed to be versatile, and shouldn't you run at peak parameters?"

"I...suppose so," she said. She brightened visibly-her lips spread into a shy smile, and a blush tinted her cheeks.

"Come now. What else have you got?"

"A..." She smiled. "A concealed mechanism in my back. It opens up if I'm damaged to the point where my security override's triggered..."

"What's it have?"

"A pincer. And a drill."

"How fast are you?"

"Not..." She frowned, and shook her head. "No more so than you, I'd think."

"Haven't you got any projectiles?" he said.

"...projectiles?"

"You know," he said. "Like a gun. It's handy, if you aren't that fast on your feet. Otherwise you have to have a pretty well-developed tactical program written. Lots of cornering. And this isn't really a room with corners."

"M-mostly I just flail," she said demurely. "It's a last resort. I don't think my creator saw it as a priority..."

"Your creator," the young man said, "sounds very inattentive."

"My creator is a wonderful man," she said, defensively.

He shook his head. "Here," he said, "sit on down. I've got a spanner on me; I can open you up and give you a quick refurbishing, how's that?"

She sank down to kneel, then to sit. Her lips parted, and she made a sound not unlike a deep breath. "You'd do that?" she said. "For me? But you must be so busy..."

"Nonsense," he said. "It's a pleasure to meet and speak to such an excellently built young woman, and considering the hospitality you've extended me I'm happy to do you a good turn back. Just remember, if anybody comes through that door, we scramble. It's part of the training exercise I'm working on."

"Oh, absolutely," she murmured, and smiled so very coyly.

He dropped to a knee, turned her slightly, and started to very analytically examine the back of her cute French maid dress for an opening-before he paused, as though realizing what he was doing, and went a violent shade of red. "You're so kind," she was saying, as he very carefully and slowly pulled the zipper down in back. He bit at his lip, hard, trembling a little, and cast a look toward her face. She was starting to flush, and clutched the fabric of her dress to her chest. "Tell me..."

"What?"

"Tell me what you'll do to me," she breathed.

He ran his tongue slowly over his teeth and set a hand gently on her shoulder. He pulled himself closer to her, where they sat together on the floor in Pokey's playroom, and whispered in her ear. "I'd have to get a good..." He swallowed. "A good look at what I'm dealing with, but it sounds like you're running at minimum parameters." He traced his fingers carefully, delicately, down the back of her neck, and she shivered. "Now, I'm familiar with most of the common pneumatic actuators and cylinders, so with a little work and creativity I'm sure I could get them functioning neatly with each other, up to full specs..."

"I bet you're very creative," she said, and cast a sultry look back at him.

"I'd be happy to install some kind of laser-targeted gun in with the rest," he said. "I'd be surprised if I couldn't speed up that drill of yours, though. Though it might run a little..." He squeezed her shoulder gently, tentatively. "It might run a little hot."

"Oh," she sighed, and shivered a little at his touch, as though he were the most excellent of lovers. "Oh, _Porky_..."

He froze, staring at her-horrified-before he resumed. He shook his head, as though clearing his thoughts. "I'll, ah," he said. "I can probably do some reprogramming, too. I _do_ hear one of the best ways to have a relationship with a woman is to get into her head..."

She turned her head and shoulders, put an arm around his waist, and pulled him slightly forward. Their lips brushed, just a little, before she moved into a full-fledged kiss. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his eyes shut as he brought an arm around her shoulders, kissing back shyly.

Li'l Miss Marshmallow caught his lower lip gently between her front teeth, for just a moment, as she moved out of the kiss. The young man opened his eyes and caught his breath again. "Oh," he said. "Oh _wow_..."

"Do I intimidate you?" she said, looking across at him.

"You..." He shook his head, and moved to slide her dress off her shoulders. "Maybe a little," he said, and it sounded so very conciliatory. "But I'm used to it. Some of my friends, they're an intimidating bunch."

"You've got nothing to fear from me," she said. She reached out and touched the tip of her forefinger to his lips. "Remember: the minute I heard your voice print, it triggered a security override."

"That's so iromantic/i," he said, and moved in for another kiss.

They held it for a moment-her fingernails dug briefly, desperately, into his shoulder-before he released it and began kissing down her neck. She sighed, needily, as he tugged the dress further down, exposing her small, creamy breasts.

He kissed along her collarbone, eyes shut, then opened them for a moment. His eyes came into focus, and he saw a name embossed on the pale skin of her shoulder:

ANDONUTS

He froze dead. "I, er," he said.

"What is it?" Li'l Miss Marshmallow looked down at him languidly.

He started to reclothe her, working quickly. "You know," he said, "I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry."

She sat up and blinked. "Why are you sorry?" she said.

He did the zipper up in the back and gave a short, perfunctory kiss to her neck. "You're very beautiful," he said, "but I've just got to keep on working. It's not really very professional for me to sit around and, er, play games with the security systems..."

She gave him a long, disapproving look. "I feel like I'm built to trust you," she said. "But I can't help but think you're not really being very-"

He helped her up to her feet, and picked up his energy rifle and reshouldered it. "Don't tell anyone I was by," he said. "Even if they ask. It's part of the exercise."

"...okay," she said, so very resigned. "Will you ever...come by again?"

"I'll see what I can do," he said. He squeezed her hand then released it, and gave her a quick, chaste, even fraternal kiss on the cheek.

"I won't go anywhere," she said.

"I don't have the map on me," he said. "What's upstairs?"

She blinked at him. "Just the generator for the building..."

"Great," he said. He started for the door and gave her a quick, nervous wave. "Cheers."

And soon the door shut, the room was silent again, and he was gone as soon as he'd come.

She watched him for a moment, uncomprehendingly, her expression blank and neutral, before she walked over and lifted the handle for the vacuum. She switched it on and resumed work, calmly.

Jeff was headed downstairs again, navigating the catwalks of Thunder Tower, so high above Tazmily Island. He spied an oblivious Pigmask patrolling the lower level, by the harsh electric nighttime lights of the catwalks, and Jeff dropped to one knee. He adjusted his energy rifle's scope, and peered through it as a strong wind ruffled his hair.

"My stupid dad ruins _everything_," he whispered, so sourly, and squeezed off a single shot.


End file.
